


Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

by orphan_account



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ends on a good note, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, So much angst, The Author Regrets Nothing, if angst was a warning this would have that, ouch my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9934871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage, against the dying of the light."*now with chapter 2*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the poem "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas. 
> 
> Big thanks to just_another_outcast for shouting with me over this fic, and also for letting me spam her with messages over on tumblr. You're the best, hon. 
> 
> I've wanted to write something for this poem for quite some time, so this is almost a relief to get out. I would suggest having tissues nearby when you read this, though.
> 
> Warnings: angst, implied violence, angst, minor character implied death, angst, minor character death, angst. Did I mention angst?

_ Do not go gentle into that good night, _

_ Old age should burn and rave at close of day; _

_ Rage, rage against the dying of the light. _

 

Jack watches his father deteriorate slowly, watches a disease that can’t be defeated slowly destroy him. He watches, furious, because he can’t fight this enemy, can’t protect the man that means so much to him. 

“Jack,” his father says, and beckons him closer to the couch that he’s resting on after a particularly painful bout of chemo.

Jack walks closer, taking a seat by the older man. “What’s up, Pop?”

His dad grins. “I noticed you were looking a bit down. What’s going on?” 

Jack tries to paste on a smile that matches his father’s. “I’m good. Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

The older man’s grin slips, fades, slowly. “Son, I know something’s the matter. Tell me.”

Jack’s smile falls, shatters. His father only ever calls him ‘son’ when he’s serious about something. The younger man stares at his hands, admitting, softly, painfully, “I don’t want you to die.” 

There’s a shuddering sigh from the man before him, and then, “Son, look at me.” 

Jack looks up, reluctantly, and watches as his father rests a hand on his shoulder as he says, “I don’t really want to leave you either, but this is the hand we were dealt. This is what happens in life. We can't do anything against this other than what we're already doing.” A pause, and then, "It's not your fault, Jack, there's nothing you could've done to prevent this."

Jack pitches forward then, clutching at the back of his father’s shirt as the tears come, pushing past the dam he’s built up over the long, painful months. 

As his tears wet his father’s shirt, the older man whispers, “I’m not going to give up, though. I’m not leaving you without a fight.” 

And that’s so much his father, that’s what his father’s life has been- nothing without a fight, nothing gained nor given easily. Jack smiles a smile that belongs in the old days, before the pain, and for a moment, everything’s fine.

* * *

 

_ Though wise men at their end know dark is right, _

_ Because their words had forked no lightning they _

_ Do not go gentle into that good night. _

 

Mac watches, silently, as his grandfather slowly fades. He’s old, he’s lived a good life, and his grandson is almost- but not quite- through high school.

Will he be there when Mac graduates? 

A soft voice calls him away from his thoughts, the only voice that’s capable of bringing him out of the rabbit hole,* at times. “Angus, it’s your turn.” 

Angus. Only his mother and grandfather ever called him Angus. His father called him ‘Gus,’ his friends, ‘Mac.’ 

Angus shakes his head and looks down at the chess board. His queen’s in a tight spot, but if he moves it- just so- then- “Angus, my boy, you’ve gotten me in checkmate.” 

The blond blinks. Looks at the board. It’s true. For the first time in his life, he’s managed to beat his grandfather at chess. 

Something feels wrong, cracked, _broken_ , like the marble chess piece he dropped on the floor when he was five. His mother had been so furious with him, but his grandfather had smiled and told her not to worry about it. 

Something hot trails down his face, followed quickly by two- three- four- five more somethings. “Angus, what’s the matter?”

Dully, the teen realizes that he’s crying. He brings his hands up to dash away the tears as they drop onto the white linoleum of the hospital floors, but more take their place. He ends up burying his face in his hands and trying to muffle the painful sobs that wrack his body. 

His grandfather stretches out a hand from the bed and touches his knee, bringing his grandson’s attention to him. “Angus, look at me.” 

Accustomed to obeying the man before him, the younger man lifts his gaze to meet the calm blue eyes of the ailing patient. “Oh, Angus, it’s been a hard life for you, hasn’t it.” 

The faintest hint of an Irish accent- the accent of the man’s native country- colors the words. Mac, with a great effort, forces enough air into his lungs to say, “Well, it hasn’t exactly been easy for you, either.” 

It’s true- the man before him barely escaped Ireland with his life, and, once he’d reached America, he’d had to work hard his whole life. One of the few bright spots in his life had been seeing his daughter married. 

No parent should outlive their child. 

The man on the bed seems to consider Mc’s words before saying, “That’s true. And I’ve never given up, have I?”

Wordlessly, his grandson shakes his head. Mac’s grandfather continues. “I’ve never given up, and, even though I’ve never changed the world, I helped you get through it until now. And you should know me well enough by now to know that I’m not going to leave this world without a fight.” 

Angus can’t help but feel relief at the familiar, feisty words of his grandfather.

* * *

 

_ Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright _

_ Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, _

_ Rage, rage against the dying of the light. _

 

Patricia Thornton pushes down on the gunshot wound of the man lying in front of her. Bullets whistle around the pair, with echoing fire from their own soldiers answering the enemy. 

Patricia chokes back a sob at the pained groan of the man underneath her bloody hands. Brown eyes look up through slitted eyelids to meet brown eyes. The man says, his voice cracking with pain, “Patty- I-” 

He breaks off, gasping for breath. The woman hushes him, her voice breaking in turn.”Don’t try to talk, just save your energy, we can get you to medical attention-” 

The man’s voice, a shell of the deep baritone it had been mere moments ago, says, “No. Have to- have to tell you. Not gonna make it.”

A strand of dark hair, torn free from a tight braid, falls in front of Patty’s face. He reaches up, gently, and brushes it away with a shaking hand. A streak of blood is left on her cheek, but neither agent pays it any attention. 

He continues. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I knew what I was doing.”

He draws in a final breath, the air rattling in his chest. With his final dredges of energy, _life_ , as he fights against the coming darkness, he utters the words he has stayed alive for. “I love you.” 

The light fades from his eyes and his hand grows limp in her grasp.

Patricia returns to her agency with a deep sorrow. She puts away the wedding dress, buries it deep in her closet. She sets the ring in her safe, somewhere she won’t see it. 

She is cold, distant. 

And then she remembers her love’s words. 

Patricia carries her head high and lives her life to the fullest, because he didn’t give his life for her to not have one.

* * *

 

_ Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, _

_ And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, _

_ Do not go gentle into that good night. _

 

Alfred Pena is a good man, Mac thinks one night in the desert. The blond watches the man as he runs a thumb over the picture of his pregnant wife, as he does every night. Then Pena lies down in his bedroll, a few feet away from Mac, just as he does every night. 

Mac smiles to himself at the thought of Pena’s soon-to-be-born daughter. The older man’s already extended an invitation to the younger to see his newborn when Mac has a chance, and the blond’s looking forward to doing so on his next leave. 

The next day, Mac’s working on a bomb when Pena approaches. “You doing okay?” 

Mac nods, looking up at the older man and wiping sweat from his forehead. “Yeah. Just- ready to catch this guy.” 

Pena nods in turn. The Ghost had claimed more victims the day before,and the entire army has developed a grudge against the man- or woman, as the case may be. “We’ll get him. Don’t worry.” 

Mac grins up at the older man, reassured by his confidence. With the two of them against the world, what can go wrong? 

Later that day, Pena goes into a building instead of Mac. He doesn’t come out. 

Mac is sick the first time he thinks of Pena’s daughter, now fatherless. Just a few short hours ago, he was enthusiastic at the thought of new life. Now, however, he wonders to himself if the world knows what they’ve lost.

He drifts in the time that passes after Pena's death, watches the sands blown about by the wind. Such is nature, such is life. 

He carries anger, frustration,  _loneliness_ , until he meets Jack.

* * *

 

_ Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight _

_ Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, _

_ Rage, rage against the dying of the light. _

 

Jack stands, numb, disbelieving, as his friend clasps his shoulder with a shaking hand, and then the friendly gesture turns into a weak shove in the direction of the jeep.

“Joe,” he says, voice pleading, begging, with the man that he’s close enough to that they’re practically brothers. “Joe, you can make it, too.” 

Joe shakes his head, his eyes half regretful, half sad, and all determined. “Someone’s gotta stay behind, Jackie-boy. I’m dying anyway. Might as well be me.” 

It’s logical, that’s true. Joe’s dying, hit by a bullet that had been dipped in a poison they don’t have an antidote to, and he’s got only a few days left. 

Love isn’t logical.

Jack draws Joe into a hard hug, and then- in one of the most painful moments of his life- he pulls back. Joe sends him a quick smile, a brief salute-

And then he’s turning, picking up his gun, and facing the enemy. 

He’s gonna die, but he can choose how, and this is what he chooses. Standing, fighting, defending those he cares about. Defending those that he doesn't know. Defending his brothers. Defending _Jack_.

Jack’s pulled away by one of his fellow soldiers. He watches, staring out of the back of the jeep, as the tall, muscular form that is his friend- his brother- is pulled away by distance and the time that passes all too quickly until the figure fades from a black speck against the neverending tan of the desert to nothing but a memory.

He knows that this will be the last time they’ll see each other alive, but it doesn’t hit home. Not yet. 

When the reports come in, when Joe’s awarded medals posthumously, that’s when the pain hits. It crashes against him, wave after wave after wave, and he flails, struggling for a lifeline. 

The pain ebbs and flows, sometimes unbearable, sometimes a deep ache that picks away at him, but it stays. It always stays.

He carries the pain with him until he meets a young blond kid by the name of MacGyver that reminds him of Joe. The aching in his chest dissolves, bit by bit by tiny bit, until he visits Joe’s grave. 

Closure comes. So do tears. Mac’s there, though, and picks up his pieces and puts them back together, and helps them to stay that way.

* * *

They've known people, many people, but none of them go gentle into that good night, no. They rage against the dying of the light. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested this, not sure who. I think it was Tamuril2???

They meet each other in that place of sand and heat and dunes and war and _pain_.

They've gained a reputation by then, each of them separately. Jack's the team leader that doesn't tolerate anything, Mac's the EOD tech that'll take on any mission, no matter how dangerous.

(Behind their backs there are whispers, whispers of anger and sadness and loneliness and blame, but they are never said to their faces.

They are watched from a distance, even within their peers, and the few people that are close to Jack have a- it's not a sadness, not quite, but almost, in their eyes when they talk about him. 

There's no one like that for Mac. The one that would have filled that role is the one that is the latest weight that adds to those already resting on his shoulders.)

It's a fluke, really, that ends with Mac being assigned to Jack's squad for a mission. A fluke that isn't corrected, much to the frustration of both parties.

The mission is supposed to be easy. In, out, and then the skinny little genius with anger flaring in his eyes and the cold, angry leader whose mouth is perpetually a thin line of barely contained frustration don't have to deal with each other anymore.

It doesn't go that way.

It was inevitable, really, Jack thinks, that he'd be captured. He just wishes it wasn't with the one person he wants to be around least at the moment.

Mac glares right back at him from his corner of the cell. "I didn't want to be on your squad either," he mutters, and Jack bristles at that. As if his squad wasn't good enough.

Then their captors come and Jack-

This isn't his first time being tortured, but it always hurts just as much. Mac, though. Mac hasn't been through this.

He holds up though, even when he's tossed back into their cell with his shoulder dislocated and his face and upper torso used as a punching bag.

(Jack puts his shoulder back and Mac leans against him for a moment, too spent to pull away or to do anything other than lean against the nearest support, which, at this point, is Jack's broad chest.

Jack looks down at the kid- and that's what he is, a kid, a kid that shouldn't be in this hellhole of misery and death- and decides, consciously, that they're getting out of there.

And by there he means both this cell and this war.)

He and Mac talk, and, three days later, through some blatantly stupid-but-ultimately-worth-it decisions from Jack and some crazy-but-somehow-working solutions from Mac, they're out.

They're in the middle of the desert and they have to find their way home when Jack snaps. It's one too many pointed comments from Mac, one too many jabs back from himself.

Jack screams at him, towering over the smaller man. He shouts out his frustration, his anger, his rage at the unfairness of it all.

(Why did his father die why did the world take him why was it his time so early why did Joe die why why  _why_ )

And Mac, the stupid skinny little blond, stands his ground and shouts right back. He screams that good, maybe Jack w ill leave him alone now, because he doesn't need a babysitter or a friend or a brother. He's been doing just fine on his own, and he'd thank Jack to stop hovering.

(To stop caring, to stop looking after him, to stop giving him a glimpse of the life he never had after his mother died, after his father left, after his grandfather died, because Pena did the same thing and now he's  _gone_ , and it hurts too much to bear and the sadness is crushing and it's easier to be angry than sad because then he doesn't have to think about the crushing weight of it all that's suffocating him)

Somehow, they both end up collapsed on the ground, having screamed themselves hoarse. There's something else though, between the two of them. It's small, but it had the potential to blossom to grow, to flourish into a bridge made of the strongest stone.

(And it will. It will become something legendary, something spoke of with awe. They don't know that quite yet, but there's.

There's a feeling.)

The anger begins to seep away..

(Later, Jack's told that they were found passed it together, both nearly dead from dehydration. It was a miracle that a patrol had happened to see their makeshift flare.

Jack nods, his face passive. He's come too close to dying too many times to dwell on it right now.

Also, he can't remember how Mac made the flare. When he asks, Mac can't remember either.)

Mac stays with Jack's squad. When they're released, he goes with Jack to visit Joe's grave. Jack cries. Mac does the same at his grandfather's grave.

It takes them a while, but they mesh together, friends instead of acquaintances, brothers instead of enemies.

(There are whispers in the night of brotherhood and heroes and sacrifices, but the whispers are never quite voiced aloud.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey if any of yall are religious id really appreciate you guys saying a prayer for the repose of the soul of one of my family members that passed away yesterday. thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> *the rabbit hole: a term that refers to the way scientists can sometimes get- and writers and artists too, I suppose- when they're so focused on something that they forget everything else, even eating, drinking, and sleeping. 
> 
> oh look i almost made myself cry


End file.
